


The Voyeurism Experiment

by veronamay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Exhibitionism, For Science!, M/M, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot, Post Reichenbach, Prompt Fic, Repression, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:51:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn't tossed off this much in years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voyeurism Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79339909&style=mine#t79339909) on the kinkmeme. Contains voyeurism/exhibitionism (mostly the latter). I've tweaked it a bit from the original fill on-meme, but it's unbeta'd so please point out any errors you see.

He hasn't tossed off this much in years.

It's crazy, this game they're playing. Absolutely insane. Sherlock's idea of trying anything and everything under the sun that might end in an enjoyable orgasm; his own suppressed desire to make it happen. The way the two of them are weaving a net of exclusion around themselves, shutting out the world more than they already do. It's not healthy to be this dependent on each other. It's even worse to be using this kind of one-upmanship to avoid dealing with the real issue. Rationally, John knows this. He knows that if they keep on the way they are, it's only going to get worse (more intense, more destructive, _dangerous_ ).

The problem is, _it's really fucking hot_.

It's Day Four of The Voyeurism Experiment. This week has been designated as the period of time during which John is to masturbate as often as he feels like it, and Sherlock is going to watch. Not every time. Not even most of the time. John won't know when Sherlock's watching; that's the point. The aim is to see whether (a) Sherlock gets off on watching people (John) in secret, and (b) John gets off on being watched.

John's gotten himself off twelve times so far. He's exhausted. He's hungry all the time. He can't think straight. He feels amazing. (Exhibitionism: check.)

Right now he's stretched out on his bed, naked, one arm behind his head and the other lazily trailing up and down his cock. He's already come once tonight (after this morning's rushed but oh-so-good effort in the shower), so he's in no hurry. His bedroom door is wide open; the hallway beyond is dark. His bedside lamp casts a weak pool of light over the bed.

John closes his eyes and arches his back a little as he starts to firm up. He remembers doing this before, when Sherlock was dead and John was alone and he used to wish he could open his eyes and see his friend watching. Cataloguing every stroke, every gasp, every shiver and rise of gooseflesh on John's skin. He used to get off on the fantasy of Sherlock just _being there_ almost more than the physical act. He's doing it now, seeing Sherlock in his mind's eye, imagining those musician's hands on his skin. He reaches up and tweaks one nipple, drags his nails down his chest and belly and exhales at the feel of it. Pretending he doesn't remember the emptiness and silence that used to come after.

His cock is pretty interested now, but John's just had a thought. Sherlock's fingers are _very_ inspirational. He rolls to the side and rummages in his bedside table for the lube he keeps there. It's warm and slick on his fingers; the sense memory makes him break into a light sweat and his breath starts to come a little faster. John draws his knees up and plants his feet flat on the bed, as wide apart as he can get them. He wonders if Sherlock's watching this. If he can see how eager John is for it, when he hasn't indulged in this particular act in years.

It really is just like riding a bike, as they say. John massages his perineum, grunting quietly as his prostate responds with jolts of pleasure. He works his way slowly back, taking his time, remembering what feels good. He brings his other arm down to fondle his cock, thumbing the slit, pushing his thumb and forefinger in a tight ring up the shaft. His legs are trembling and his chest is going like a bellows.

The first breach is electric. His breath catches and he goes absolutely still as dormant nerve endings come alive and let him know that yes, indeed, they are all still present and correct. John bites his lip and presses in further, circling mindlessly around and around the glans of his cock with his other hand. He's not entirely sure how quiet he's being anymore; this feels _fantastic_ , and if Sherlock isn't watching then he bloody well should be.

Oh, God. Sherlock's hands on him like this. Sherlock's long, scarred fingers pressing into him, searching, while cool green-grey eyes watch him like a hawk, dissecting him down to the bone. John shudders and presses in a third finger, deeper than before, finding his prostate and rubbing it delicately. His legs jerk in reaction and he lets out a breathy laugh. He can feel his pulse: in his cock, in his arse, can hear it pounding furiously in his ears. He rubs again, squeezes his cock at the same time, and his teeth bear down so hard on his lip that he can feel the skin break.

He's trying to decide whether to attempt milking himself when something in the atmosphere ... changes. There's no noise; no difference in the light glowing through his eyelids; no reason at all to think that he isn't completely alone.

John opens his eyes and stares straight into Sherlock's fascinated face.

" _Jesus_ ," he gasps, and that's it: he's three fingers deep in himself and Sherlock is _inches away_ with one of those fucking gorgeous hands reaching out to _touch_ , and John's body explodes without warning.

It's not very exciting, visually speaking. Most of his ejaculate makes its appearance in his first orgasm of the day; this is a dry climax even with the prostate massage. It's still intense enough to curl his toes and leave him a panting sweaty mess on the bed.

"I wasn't going to," Sherlock says in a wondering tone. His voice sounds like gravel. "I haven't, at all, since the week started. But tonight I just ... wanted to see. What you might do, when nobody's watching. When somebody might be. I used to think about it when--"

He stops, but they both know what he was going to say. _When I was pretending to be dead._

Not now, not now, not now. He can't go there now. John huffs out a breathless laugh and swipes his clean hand drunkenly over his face. "Well, now you know."

"Yes." Sherlock's face is flushed. His eyes are bright. He's nearly hypnotic when he's like this: all singleminded focus and feral want. "Now I know."

(Voyeurism: check.)

Sherlock's hand is still outstretched, shaking oh-so-minutely, hovering scant inches away from John's belly. He's fully dressed, except for his bare feet. He's sporting a very evident erection that must be painfully constricted by slim-cut black trousers. John looks at him and wonders how he can still ache so badly when Sherlock is standing right there. He wonders if he'll ever stop.

 _Not now, damn it. Later. Sort it out later._

"What do you think?" he asks at last, dragging himself up to a sitting position. His hand is sticky. He looks around for the towel he'd brought in from the bathroom.

"I think ..." Sherlock picks up the towel from the foot of the bed and hands it to him. John takes it; Sherlock doesn't let go for a moment. John looks up at him. "I think I need to see it again," Sherlock says. "Slower, and in better lighting conditions." He tilts his head, licks his lips. "Do you have any objection to using the kitchen table?"

Of course. The best way to prove an experiment has been successful is to replicate the results. It should sound clinical, but instead John feels a wave of heat.

"Disinfectant and plastic sheeting?" He stands up on wobbly legs and starts for the bathroom.

"Obviously."

Sherlock trails after him, still wearing that incredibly flattering expression. John wonders if Sherlock's going to follow him right into the shower. He wonders if he should be worried that he doesn't mind their lack of boundaries. That instead, he's already picturing Sherlock up against the tile with a hand in John's hair and his cock halfway down John's throat through a haze of water and steam. That he's plotting what will happen after, if he can lure Sherlock back to his bed and get him to lie still long enough to cuddle.

"Keep it on the list, then." He turns on the shower--this experiment has necessitated a lot more showers than usual--and turns to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Can I suggest a variation?"

Sherlock's look changes from fascination to intrigue. He starts to strip off his clothes, clearly intending to join John in the shower. "Go on, then."

John looks him up and down and grins.

"How do you feel about being tied up while you watch?"

END


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